When Treatment Takes Over: Thoughts on Two Visual Artworks by Simona Carini

Simona Carini writes nonfiction and poetry and has been published in various print and online venues. Her poem “I Ask My Friend How She Feels: Her Response” appears in the Spring 2020 issue of the Intima.

Simona Carini writes nonfiction and poetry and has been published in various print and online venues. Her poem “I Ask My Friend How She Feels: Her Response” appears in the Spring 2020 issue of the Intima.

As a writer, I am attracted to artists who use other media (drawings, paintings, sculptures, mixed media) to express emotions and share experiences I explore and describe using words. In my poem “I Ask My Friend How She Feels: Her Response,” I open a window into the experience of undergoing chemotherapy as treatment for cancer. The first stanza focuses on the time warp caused by the treatment schedule, such that each day feels like “it is always infusion day.” In his work on paper “Adjusted Schedule” Dennis Svoronos shows how his brain cancer has taken over his life, his schedule an unending sequence of “wake-chemo-radiation-sleep”–a cycle of aggressive treatment and rest necessary to survive, such that the intervals in between are compressed to a dash, almost no time at all. On his website, Svoronos lists the materials employed in the artwork as: wood, glass and the artist’s hair. The latter makes “Adjusted Schedule” even more deeply personal. Hair loss is a common side effect of cancer treatment. Svoronos transforms the material once part of his body into a medium to share his experience. In looking at the artwork, we can imagine his voice repeating “wake-chemo-radiation-sleep” until the words become a chant. My poem also aims at giving voice to someone, offering a space where the narrator can safely describe moments of her life. The watercolor “Speak” by Laura Anne White introduces the viewer to a man who has lost the ability to speak due to treatment for tongue cancer. We see only his face and on it we see intense physical and emotional pain: the eyes are closed, the mouth has lost its physical substance, turning into a light bloody cloud. By bringing the viewer close to her subject’s face, the artist makes sure we witness his silent pain, recognize his suffering. In each case, we are called to be there for the patient, the artist, the friend, and listen to their story, regardless of the way it is told.


Simona Carini writes nonfiction and poetry and has been published in various print and online venues. Born in Perugia, Italy, a graduate of the Catholic University of the Sacred Heart (Milan, Italy) and of Mills College (Oakland, CA), Carini lives in Northern California with her husband and works as an academic researcher in Medical Information Science. For more of her work go to simonacarini.com.

©2020 Intima: A Journal of Narrative Medicine